Only Human
by KCS
Summary: Five times through the centuries that Spock of Vulcan was surprised by Jim Kirk's human selflessness, and one time he was not at all surprised. Gen, mainly self-indulgent fluff, H/C, angst, little bit of whatever else I come up with. No real spoilers until final chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Only Human  
**Characters**: primarily Kirk & Spock, bits of others  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: (this bit) 2465  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: Basic TOS spoilers and speculation, Major STID spoilers in the last section  
**Summary**: _Five times through the centuries that Spock of Vulcan was surprised by Jim Kirk's human selflessness, and one time he was not at all surprised._

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**A/N**: I am aware, and am sorry for the fact, that it's been over six months since I wrote anything of any sort, in this or any other fandom. This is not the proper forum to divulge my personal life, but rest assured there was justification for my disappearance and it was not a lack of interest in the fandom or the wonderful people still out there reading my fics. I have still received all your PMs, comments, and reviews, and they made me smile every time I read them. I am still catching up with PMs, so please bear with me as I make a slow attempt to re-enter this charming world.

In the meantime, please enjoy this little, extremely rough, peace offering with the promise of more to come (all six chapters are nearly done now), and I welcome your feedback on where you would like me to pick up next, if there's anyone out there still reading me regularly. Thank you again! -KCS

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**VI.**

Spock of Vulcan dislikes Sol III, or _Terra_ as it is colloquially termed, with an emphatically unVulcan revulsion.

He simply cannot fathom why anyone in his correct mind would wish to inhabit such a frigid, watery world crammed full of beings who are totally incapable of controlling their emotions. Everywhere one looks, there are humans upon a few alien species upon yet more _humans_, jostling and shoving each other through the terminals and talking far too loudly for his sensitive hearing into various communication devices. Even the children of this distasteful planet are boisterous, raucously noisy as they dart through crowds intent upon knocking over luggage and other humans; or else they simply perch on whatever is at hand, heels banging upon the nearest object and noses buried superciliously in expensive handheld vid-games. It is these who are the most irksome, for they cast him rudely curious glances over said games when they apparently believe he is not aware of their staring.

Spock can, conversely, quite understand why his mother was perfectly happy to leave such a loathsome place and live on the much more orderly and peaceful planet of Vulcan. When he voices this logical opinion during their walk to the terminal, however, he is met with only that knowing smile and conciliatory nod which indicates his mother has a differing opinion which she will keep silent due to Vulcan propriety. Which is only to be expected, as they have been traveling under diplomatic escort out of New San Francisco. Now, they have made it through the primary transportation terminal which will transport them to their ambassadorial ship docked outside the secondary shipyard in Riverside, and are waiting for their party's electronic signature to be transmitted in order to finalize transport proceedings.

He stands quietly, hands folded neatly before him, and waits with admirable Vulcan patience for the last leg of their journey to be finalized. This earns him an approving nod from his father, when Sarek finishes speaking with his primary ambassadorial aide, and a quiet ruffling of his hair from his mother. He waits until she turns back to Sarek, of course, out of regard for human feelings, to hastily move the offending fringe back into place, using the highly reflective surface of the duranium pole next to him to aid in the proceedings.

He has not quite managed to return to his previously immaculate state, when something slams heavily into his back, causing him to stumble alarmingly close to the unforgiving support pole. Being Vulcan, he displays neither annoyance nor surprise, but turns to fix the offending object with the amount of Vulcan disdain that is appropriate in such circumstances.

A tiny little human child, at least five inches shorter than he and sporting two missing front teeth, stares wide-eyed up at him from under a mop of shockingly curly blond hair.

He is accustomed to being stared at, and therefore this is no hardship, especially when the child appears to be merely curious rather than intent upon using his appearance as a medium for personally combative mockery.

"Sorry," the child finally lisps with surprising politeness, after another (admittedly less polite) long look at Spock's pointed ears. Spock notes with scientific curiosity the difficulty of proper enunciation without the front teeth necessary for correct phonemes, as he was never without both teeth at the same time.

"No harm was done," he returns, with equal courtesy. "Are you not traveling with an adult caretaker, _ax'nav_?"

"Huh?" Hazel eyes blink at him in total confusion.

"You cannot be in such a place as this all alone," he responds, frowning; for what kind of parent, even an admittedly human parent, would permit such a youngling to roam the crowded terminal without escort?

"You talk weird," the child observes candidly, although the words are missing any trace of malice; simply an honest observation, then. It is a communicative difference which a scientific mind, accustomed to being the butt of jokes even in his own culture, can appreciate. Spock is about to comment on this, though it no doubt will be of little interest to such an immature mind as this child, when the little one thrusts out a chubby hand, thankfully free of dirt and at least visible germs. "I'm Jim," he offers with what appears to be an excess of enthusiasm.

Unsure of what to do with the child's hand, but not wishing to offend an innocent alien culture, Spock returns the gesture by offering the _ta'al_ at the same level as the child's outstretched hand. "I am Spock, son of Sarek," he responds.

"You ain't human," the child observes after a moment, though to Spock's relief he does not appear to be offended by their differences in greeting.

"_Are not_ human," he corrects, for his mother has impressed upon him that to a scientific mind, it is always the proper time to learn.

'Tha's what I said," the child protests, the words whistling strangely through the gap in his teeth. "Where you from?"

"I am a Vulcan, from the planet Vulcan," he replies, for now ignoring the child's total lack of concern for incorrect Standard verb tenses. "It is the closest Class M planet to your Earth."

The little one's eyes widen. "Issat why your ears look different?"

Spock is taken aback, pleasantly so, by the word choice; already today he has heard at least six children, far older than this tiny little scrap of human boy, laugh behind their hands and tell their parents to "look at his funny ears."

"It is," he finally answers, uncertain in this new sensation. "Our species are physically similar in many ways, yet different in certain aspects of our physiology."

The child tugs suddenly at his own rounded ears, half-hidden under the mop of hair, and then favors him with a blinding gap-toothed grin. "I like 'em," he chirps, still staring with evident fascination. "They're pretty cool, y'know."

Spock cannot accurately place the Terran slang, but judges from the intonation that it is a complimentary term rather than a derogatory. He spends a few moments mentally shuffling through his Terran linguistic banks for the proper reply to such sentiment, and settles on a simple expression of gratitude. Jim nods solemnly in response.

Then suddenly, the child flops down on the floor beside the pillar Spock nearly impacted earlier in their conversation, and a moment later is tugging at the edge of his traveling robe.

Jim looks up at him with another smile, waving a pocket gaming device dangerously close to his own eyes with his free hand. "I got the new Math Pirates game," he says, gesturing again with the device. "You wanna play? I bet you can win in, like, ten seconds! I can't do all the mul-mul-ter-plu-cation problems yet."

Rather than continue to have his robe tugged on by over-eager human fingers, Spock refrains from visual expression of his mounting exasperation and instead seats himself gingerly at a safe distance from the little one's dangerously waving arms. "I have never played such a device," he admits, for there is no shame in the truth, and most of these Terran games seem to possess very little educational value.

Jim stares at him, this time with incredulity. "Are you for real?"

"Am I…affirmative?" he replies uncertainly.

"Duuuuude." Yet another expression Spock cannot reply to, as he has no idea what the intonation means. "Here, look." The vid-game lands in his lap unexpectedly, and he suddenly has a shoulder full of pointy human chin. "See, you hafta solve the math problems first, t'build up power in the phasers and torpedo banks. Then you get to go out an' shoot the pirate ships!"

Spock believes the educational content of the game is dubious at best, as he progressed past such basic mathematical problems two years ago in his own schooling, but there is something about the fast-paced challenge of strategy and coordination that makes the game appealing, he must admit, after a good ten minutes of playing.

"Duuuuude." That word again, but this time in a tone of awe rather than disbelief. Obviously the word is a multipurpose expression in Terran Standard. "You are so _good_!"

"Am I?" he inquires, eyebrows raised doubtfully.

"Yes! You sure you never played this before?" Small eyes squint suspiciously at him for a moment.

"We do not have such things on Vulcan," he responds quietly, staring down at the game. "They serve no logical purpose in childhood development."

Jim looks highly affronted. "_Bull_," he declares, eyes shining with indignation. "They're, like, totally part of bein' a kid! You ain't that old!"

"_Are not_ that old."

"'S what I said!"

Spock represses a sigh of lament for the painfully dying verb tenses, and then glances up quickly as a shout reaches his keener hearing – another child, several years older than this little one, shouting Jim's name. He stands to his feet, Jim scrambling to follow.

"Someone is calling for you," he says unnecessarily, as the bellowing voice now can be heard throughout the terminal.

Jim scowls. "'S just Sam," he mutters, scuffing a toe along the floor with a cringe-worthy screeeek.

"And Sam is?"

"My big brother," the child grumbles, glaring at the approaching human boy with a ferocious glare that Spock thinks is fairly undeserved.

"Should you not have stayed with him?"

"Mayyyyybe," Jim hedges cautiously, shuffling a step closer to Spock as if in some show of solidarity.

Spock sighs, this time aloud, as the older boy approaches, looking thunderously at his tiny brother.

"Dude, you are in so much trouble when we get back," Sam declares, lightly cuffing the child on the back of the head. "Dad's threatening to have you chipped with a tracker like a puppy, you little squirt."

"Am not a puppy!"

"Well then, quit running away like one!"

"Am not!"

"Ughhhh." Sam turns to Spock, who has stood silently aloof from the family drama, and Spock braces himself for another shock-induced staring match. To his surprise, the older boy merely gives him a thorough glance and then nods, apparently satisfied. "Hope this little brat wasn't bugging you too much," the child offers, in a friendly enough tone.

"He was not…bugging me, at all," Spock replies, the unfamiliar word stumbling off his tongue.

"Sammmmm, stop it!" Small hands unsuccessfully try to pry the older boy's knuckles out of unruly hair. Jim kicks half-heartedly at his brother's ankle. "You're so _mean_!"

"Riiiight. I'm mean," Sam drawls, grinning at the little one's flushed, scowling face. "So mean that I offered to come find you instead of letting dad be the first one to get his hands on you. You know that a starship captain can never be late, kiddo. Keep this up and you'll never even make it into Starfleet Academy someday 'cause some space trader will be snatching you up and flying awaaaaay with you!" The words are punctuated by the child's giggle as he is swung up into the air and around in a circle, little shoes flying madly.

Spock watches the interaction with fascination, for it is a strangely tactile, strangely alien culture, completely foreign to every sibling interaction he has ever seen on Vulcan.

Jim finally hiccups from his perch now atop Sam's shoulders, and smacks the older boy in the eye on accident, causing a yelp and a returning swat to the ankle. "Well, thanks for watchin' this one for me," Sam says, suddenly turning back to Spock. "Sorry for imposing on you; I imagine he's been quite a shock to a more logical species."

"It was no imposition." Spock looks up at the grinning child once more. "And your generosity in sharing your game was much appreciated, Jim," he says, quite sincerely.

"Sam, Spock says they got no vid-games on Vulcan!" Jim is still apparently quite horrified by this idea, judging from the tone. "Ain't that awful?"

"Sure is, kiddo. I'm glad you shared with him."

"Spock?" Jim leans dangerously over the side of his brother's shoulders, causing the older boy to mutter and shift his weight to a more stable position.

"Yes, Jim?"

"You…you wanna keep this one?" Spock stares at the gaming device, held out in mid-air by this strange little human, and then glances up at the reluctant but still sincere offering in the child's eyes. "I got more at home. You can…you can have this one if you want."

Sam opens his mouth, no doubt to protest the wisdom of the little one offering a prized possession to a total stranger; Spock does not blame him for this, but apparently Jim does, for the child kicks him with a well-aimed sneaker toe and receives understanding silence in return.

But it is the thought behind the gesture, rather than the game itself, which has already changed the way in which Spock sees this human culture. He does not need the physical presence of a vid-game he has mentally outgrown years past to remember this moment.

"You are very kind, Jim," he replies, wishing there were appropriate Vulcan gestures to express what Vulcan words do not permit. "But you should keep your game. After all, you must learn those multiplication problems and you cannot do so if I have the game."

Apparently it is logic enough for a human toddler, and he sees the relief in both boys' eyes at his polite refusal. Oddly enough, it is that knowledge that warms him the most; that one child could be so unselfish, despite not truly wishing to part with a prized possession.

Perhaps, not all humans are as those he has up to now encountered on this, his first journey to Terra.

The loudspeaker sounds overhead, and the transport call number must be that of the two young humans, for Sam shuffles his brother to a better position and then turns to leave.

"Thanks, man," the older boy says over his shoulder, and gives him a companionable nod.

"Bye, Spock!" Jim calls, offering him one more enormous gap-toothed grin, and gives what looks like a bizarre crab-like approximation of the _ta'al_ with _both_ hands waving wildly in the air, as they disappear into the crowded terminal.

Spock fights down a twinge of amusement, reluctantly compartmentalizing it as yet another childhood failing of his Vulcan heritage.

A shadow falls over him, and he looks up to see his mother, smiling after the retreating figures in the crowd. "Who was your friend, Spock?" she asks, quietly enough that Sarek will not hear.

"Vulcans do not have friends, Mother; you are aware of this," he replies with perfect equanimity.

Amanda sighs, and rests a gentle hand on his head. "Of course, my son. I ask forgiveness."

He nods, watching as the bouncing little human finally disappears down the next terminal. His mother gives him a fond pat upon the shoulder, the only gesture of affection she will offer in public out of respect for his Vulcan upbringing, and then turns away to gather up their luggage and re-join Sarek and his aides.

"His name is Jim," Spock says softly, once she is out of earshot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Only Human  
**Characters**: primarily Kirk & Spock, bits of others  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: (this bit) 2419  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: Basic TOS spoilers and speculation for all sections (spoilers for **_Obsession_ **and total KCS-speculation for this section), Major STID spoilers in the last section  
**Summary**: _Five times through the centuries that Spock of Vulcan was surprised by Jim Kirk's human selflessness, and one time he was not at all surprised._

* * *

**V.**

Spock of Vulcan has very little patience for the politics which drive certain members of the Federation and, in particular, those in the upper hierachy of Starfleet Command.

Perhaps this is due in part to his experience as son of the Vulcan ambassador to Terra and other Federation planets (and due to having broken ties with said ambassador over a disagreement on career choice), perhaps it is due to seeing the internal workings of Starfleet Command closely during that very brief internship his final year at Starfleet Academy. Perhaps it is simply yet another unpleasant effect of having a half-human ancestry, this inability to control his distaste for the process.

Whatever the reason, he has never considered a diplomatic career because the idea is distasteful to him – despite Sarek's firm belief that Spock refused to follow his patriarch's career choice simply to be belligerent in his rebellious adolescence. Spock is an exploratory scientist, not a diplomat; and while he is perfectly capable of diplomacy when the time warrants it, he has no interest in being involved in other species' ridiculous interplanetary disputes and petty quarrels with the Federation, nor does he find having to learn the ins and outs of dealing with corruption within Command or how to "play the game" to be at all appealing.

He therefore is understandably unenthusiastic about Captain Pike's latest assignment, which seems to his impartial eye to be nothing more than a Federation-driven coverup for some deep space disaster which the powers-that-be have no desire to see hit the galactic press. To add to this distasteful mission, Pike's Number One and their Chief Medical Officer have both been quarantined with the Altarian 'flu for two days, and will still be in strict quarantine by the time they reach the location of the disaster.

This means that command of the initial boarding party will fall to Spock, as ranking Science officer in the absence of a ranking Medical officer. The disaster, from the briefing which they received (sparse of detail, and sparser of instruction), appears to be biohazardous in nature, as whatever happened to this starship was sufficient to kill over half the crew and leave the ship crippled and stranded, virtually dead in space.

Spock has no desire to command, and while his scientific curiosity is piqued about the entire lack of detail in the official briefing, that is overshadowed by the fact that he will not be able to take firsthand part in the observational proceedings; it will fall to him to interview survivors and send the first investigative report back to the _Enterprise_, before Captain Pike will risk beaming himself aboard. He will then work in tandem with Captain Pike to report back to Starfleet with his findings, meaning that he will most likely perform several days' worth of investigation and research, after which Command will curtly thank him and then promptly cover the reports with whatever cover story they devise to explain the tragedy.

However, he is a Starfleet officer, and as the politics do not interest him whatsoever he accepts his assignment with equanimity, and beams aboard the U.S.S. _Farragut_ once they've approached and performed initial scans to verify no malevolent life-forms aboard.

Even he can feel a twinge of unease at the rampant death toll, which only mounts as they move through the corridors toward the Bridge, dividing into search and rescue parties with the precision of a well-trained flagship crew. After all, even a Vulcan is permitted revulsion at unnecessary and innocent death, and whatever killed these people – mostly humans, as most prominent exploratory starships are – was quick and ruthless in its selection. It appears that everyone who happened to be in an exposed area was killed before they could seek shelter, for bodies litter the corridors and open rec areas.

Spock speculates, as he moves through the corridors toward the Bridge, that survivors were ones who managed to barricade themselves in less open areas of the ship, behind force-field protected ventilators possibly; or else whatever massacred the crew found itself satisfied with the death toll and simply moved on to easier prey. He is curious, scientifically and medically, as to what precisely killed these beings, for those with naturally fair skin coloration are now almost translucently white, as if they have literally been drained of blood; yet there is no sign of bloodshed on the walls, floor, or upon the bodies themselves. The smell of death, sickly-sweet, comes clearly even through the filters in his biohazard suit.

He allows two Security men, moving somewhat awkwardly in their bulky suits, before him through the Bridge's Jefferies Tube entrance, but there is no sound of alarm from within and he follows within moments, tricorder at the ready and scanning for any signs of biohazards or airborne pathogens of any kind.

He receives no indications that aught is amiss with the air content of the Bridge (which bears out his conjecture that the attacker has long since left the ship), and after a second, equally thorough scan, he removes his headgear and gloves as they are impossibly bulky. Moving swiftly to the communications console, he shuts off the automated distress beacon and contacts the _Enterprise_, briefly updating Captain Pike as to his location. He then turns to survey the Bridge, minutely shaking his head at the devastation.

Captain Garrovick is certainly dead, still seated in his command chair, staring lifelessly at the ceiling with eyes almost invisibly pale as the rest of his skin. The communications officer is not in his seat, but is lying on the deck in an oddly restful position with his frozen hands folded over his chest; Spock suspects someone removed the man in order to send the distress call after the attacker had fled. The other members of the Bridge crew appear to simply have fallen where they were, as if they did not even have time to fight for their lives before being struck down.

The First Officer's chair is empty, but Spock sees a uniform sleeve with three braids protruding from the space behind the captain's chair, and upon closer inspection adds the First to the list of the deceased. The helmsman's and navigator's chairs are both empty (the navigation console has been taken apart, it appears in an attempt to rewire and bypass the dead navigation circuits), but the remaining stations each hold a crewman slumped over his console, all with the same lifeless coloration of tissue and dry skin.

Spock assigns his Medical team of two to begin biohazard tests upon the victims, while he sends Security back to help with the search and rescue of survivors, still indicated deep within the bowels of the ship. He then moves to the library console, finds nothing in the research logs to indicate what might have happened aboard, and is about to move to the captain's chair to retrieve the ship's logs when something thuds loudly against the starboard turbolift door; Spock and his team had come through the Jefferies tubes as a safety precaution. Optimistic that he has found a survivor but still wary of a trap, Spock moves to the control panel next to the door and triggers the emergency open, as the controls are still inoperative.

He then is forced to duck as a phaser beam nearly takes his head off, and in the ensuing adrenaline rush belatedly adds a note to self for his next (hopefully far distant) command mission; to never dismiss security without securing a perimeter. His Medical team is behind him in an instant, though they are not needed. His attacker is disarmed with one Vulcan-quick reflex, and Spock exhales in relief as he sees a single and dotted row of braid on the scarlet sleeve.

"Report, Lieutenant," he barks in a clear, stern tone; and it has the desired effect. The young man snaps out of his somewhat frenzied reactions into some semblance of attention, and for the first time appears to actually _see_ them. A medical tricorder whirrs off to Spock's left, but he keeps his eyes locked on the lieutenant, who is – to his credit, Spock admits with respect – carefully taking in his biohazard suit and peering below the bulky sleeves to see the Starfleet Science blue underneath.

"Lieutenant James Kirk, sir," the young man manages finally, scraping both hands – noticeably trembling – roughly over his eyes. "Alpha-shift navigator, recently promoted from Engineering. Someone heard our distress call, then."

"I am Lieutenant-Commander Spock, of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_," Spock returns in kind, though his mind is already leaps ahead, wondering how this man survived the massacre on the Bridge and to their knowledge thus far, no one else did. "Lieutenant, report. We received only an automated distress beacon and very little particulars of the events leading up to it."

Kirk gives him a look which is equal parts irritated, incredulous, and exhausted. "You were lucky to get that much, with the comms board fried like it was," he retorts with less energy than attitude. "It was all I could do to get the automated life support systems functioning again, and the auto-pilot still isn't working no matter what I jury-rig in this thing. All our Engineering officers were killed and the Medical techs have had their hands full with survivors."

Spock shoots the nearest Medical technician a look, and she nods and darts to the Life-support console to verify that the lieutenant's so-called 'jury-rigging' is still keeping life support systems functioning; if they are in danger of collapse then they will need to begin evacuation procedures to the Enterprise soon. He turns his attention back to the young human, who is now leaning against the nearest console for support, quite pale and shaking.

"Are you in need of medical attention, Mr. Kirk?" he inquires coolly, still not having satisfied his suspicions of how this man survived when the senior command crew did not.

"That's an affirmative, sir," Price, his other medical technician, says curtly, moving the tricorder over the young man's body once more. "Severe hemoglobin and nutrient depletion, and when did you sleep last, Lieutenant?"

Kirk favors the nurse with a truly impressive glare. "Try watching your captain and command crew die inches from you, and see how well _you_ sleep for the next few days." There is no real malice in the words, only a deep sense of what Spock picks up on as grief, regret…and guilt.

"What happened on this Bridge, Lieutenant?"

Kirk straightens up into a loose attempt at attention. "I don't know, sir."

Spock's eyebrow inches upward. "I find that difficult to believe, Mr. Kirk."

"And I'm finding it difficult _to remain upright_, Lieutenant-Commander, but we don't always get what we want, now do we?" Kirk fires back at him, eyes boring straight into Spock's head.

He blinks in surprise at the blatant insubordination, yet something in the young man's look appeals to him, somewhere on a less conscious level. The human is obviously in shock, ill, and no doubt traumatized from the recent massacre, as humans have no way of dealing with such things as Vulcans do. He is about to lessen his tone, when Kirk shakes his head and slumps half-against the wall.

"That was out of line, sir, and I apologize. I honestly don't know what happened, Commander," he says quietly, eyes locked on the floor a few inches from Captain Garrovick's still body. "It didn't have a definite form, and whatever it was, it killed instantly. Our phasers had absolutely no effect on it. When it attacked the Captain, everything devolved into total chaos…I and Peterson –"

"We are compiling a survivor's list, Lieutenant. Rank and name?"

"Jacob, Jacob Peterson…Ensign, First-Class. He's down in Engineering, I think, trying to help with repairs." Kirk glances up, and at Spock's nod continues. "He's just a kid, Peterson, straight out of the Academy and on his first year in space of any kind, much less deep space. He was training at the helm with me – I dragged him and one of the Library Sciences ensigns over to the Jefferies tube and shoved them in before…I guess I collapsed on top of the entrance, I don't really remember. So yes, I suppose you can put in your report that the ones who run away are the ones who survive," the young man finishes bitterly, rubbing a shaking hand across his eyes.

"Self-preservation against impossible odds is not cowardice, nor is it dereliction of duty to put the life of the trainees for whom you were responsible before your own," Spock answers readily, for by now something tells him that this young man is telling the truth, and that he requires mental comfort almost more than medical attention.

Kirk's eyes flicker up to his, and something like gratitude fills them before he glances back toward the body of the captain. "Captain Garrovick was my mentor, Commander," he whispers brokenly. "There was nothing we could do – nothing I could do. That much I swear. I did what I could…there just wasn't time to save anyone."

Spock privately thinks the human sounds more like he is trying to convince himself than the boarding party, but he has the grace to not comment upon the matter.

"Mr. Kirk, you will be required later for a full report," he says, not unkindly. "But only after you receive the necessary medical attention and counseling you require."

The young lieutenant nods almost mechanically, and turns to precede Ensign Price into the Jefferies tube.

"Ensign," Spock finds himself saying, as the nurse bends to enter the narrow passageway himself.

"Aye, sir?"

Spock glances around him again at the scene of death, and marvels that even three crewmen survived what looks to be an almost total massacre of a crew trapped with a killer in a small enclosed area. Three crewmen, two of them due to the quick action of the only man on the Bridge not apparently paralyzed by fear to the point of singular self-preservation. Very few Vulcans he knows would risk precious seconds in such chaos to save the young and inexperienced; to see a human do so restores some of his faith in the race as a whole. And for some odd reason, deep down inside in that strangely secluded place he hides his half-human side, some small voice tells him to be grateful that this young lieutenant has survived what was intended to be a total massacre.

"Take care of him, Ensign," he says quietly, and turns back to compiling his report.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Only Human  
**Characters**: primarily Kirk & Spock, bits of others  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: (this bit) 2419  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: Basic TOS spoilers and speculation for all sections (spoilers for **_Obsession_ **and total KCS-speculation for this section), Major STID spoilers in the last section  
**Summary**: _Five times through the centuries that Spock of Vulcan was surprised by Jim Kirk's human selflessness, and one time he was not at all surprised._

* * *

**IV.**

Spock of Vulcan has not yet fully assimilated the presence of a new being into his limited circle of acquaintances.

This is partly due to the fact that, though he oddly feels like he knows this man from somewhere, he has in actual fact only been serving under Captain Kirk for a little over four months. It is also due in part no doubt, to the fact that every time Spock believes he has fully discovered just what drives this human, just who he truly is, Kirk goes and does something which upsets the entire equation and throws Spock's logically ordered mind into total imbalance once again.

He has never in his life met someone so distracting to his well-ordered senses, mind, and way of life. Kirk is that one crack of chaos in a finely-tuned tricorder screen, capable of driving the most logical of minds to madness. How Spock is supposed to find a way to work with the man, after eleven years of an amicably distant relationship with his previous captain, is a very good question, and one whose answer promises to be far different than Captain Pike's reign aboard has previously produced.

And to make matters worse – Spock finds that James Kirk's frustratingly innate ability to distract him to be…not entirely unwelcome.

He truly has lost the war, with not a single shot having been fired.

Captain Kirk is the pleasant antithesis of Captain Pike, who had been a brilliant, but ultimately withdrawn and aloof, commander, who believed in leaving his crew to their own expert devices and spending his free time with the very few people in his circle of close acquaintances. It had been a quite successful working relationship between Pike and his officers; and to have that atmosphere of cordial solitude upended with so little effort by their new captain has completely thrown Spock off his game.

Kirk appears to be an amiable enough commander: gregarious, sociable, and almost unreasonably charming, as evidenced by his crew's nearly overnight infatuation with the man. Spock is, of course, immune to such human charisma, although he has discovered his own reactions to the captain to be more indulgent, more amused than annoyed, than he would be toward any other human of his acquaintance.

He has no one to turn to, no mentor from whom to request advice, to help explain this phenomenon. No Vulcan would deign to answer such an inquiry, and he well knows his mother would be of little to no assistance in helping him understand how a human can project such power without psychic aid; and yet he knows better than any crewman aboard, that Kirk is completely and totally psi-null, an otherwise humorous flaw in such a successful personality. Kirk has little to no telepathic perception and apparently cannot be influenced by psychic force in any way, as evidenced by the fact that he has _still_ not grasped the fact that Spock has been, gently but firmly, rebuffing his advances toward what the humans call "friendship."

No, somehow the captain has missed the point altogether. Spock's polite refusal to have dinner together in Officers' Mess was met the next morning with the man bellowing outside his door, asking if he was going to tour the Science Labs as planned this morning and would he like company. Spock's completion of paperwork three hours ahead of schedule did not earn him three hours of silent meditation; on the contrary, it gained him a far too cheerful human showing up through their adjoining bathroom with a tri-D chess board, asking if he wanted to play a game. Offering to perform a shuttle inspection during alpha shift in an effort to put some distance between them only resulted in being saddled with the same insatiably curious human, who apparently believes him to be the end-all of all things technical.

And when Spock resorts to hiding in out-of-the-way laboratories and computer rooms in an effort to remain apart from the small dynamo of human chaos which seems to be stalking him, he forgets that he is attempting to do from the only human – the only being – who received both a warning and a citation from Starfleet Command for re-programming a supposedly invincible computer in order to conquer a test long thought unbeatable.

Why did he ever think _himself_ to be more able to withstand such a man?

Somehow, from the moment his new captain visited his quarters for the first time, exclaiming in surprise at the increased gravity and falling flat on his face in front of his new Science Officer, Spock has found himself curiously unable to resist the immoveable force which is Captain James Tiberius Kirk.

It must be the scientist within him that is subtly attracted to such an ever-changing presence; no doubt it is simply the allure of an unknown and therefore radical force in the constant world of cold, precise science.

Quite logical, really.

Kirk continues to surprise him at every turn, as if the man is making it his singular goal in life to destroy every logical construct Spock has ever formed regarding the human race as a whole. Spock tolerates this with as much equanimity as he can muster, until one day when a simple act leaves him nearly speechless with surprise.

They are checking in with one of the newer Federation members, the inhabitants of a planet simply called Beta 141/5 until the Federation can translate a Standard equivalent of the name from the barely-written language of its natives. Their universal translators ensure that they can communicate with no difficulty verbally, and it is their first mission of this kind since they left Terra four weeks ago, after recuperating from that disaster of a shakedown cruise.

Spock is settling slowly into his role as dual First and Chief Science Officer, at Kirk's own request, and he is the logical choice to lead a landing party of this sort. However, it does not surprise him by now that the captain insists upon leading the party himself; Spock suspects this will become the pattern for the duration of their five-year mission, and that in another few decades there will be new regulations on the books due solely to this human's ridiculous penchant for getting his hands dirty.

But it is not for him to question his commander, and so the two of them and a diplomatic/medical party take one of the new shuttles down to the capitol to check in with the High Council. They board the _Copernicus_ at the captain's insistence, and Spock is forced to agree with the human in that their transporters have been tested multiple times but their shuttles have not yet; and what better time to do so than on a non-urgent, peaceful mission? He is surprised once again when the captain takes the navigation controls himself, but slips easily into his role as co-pilot while they run through pre-flight checklists.

The look on the human's face as they prepare to take off is so utterly gleeful that Spock's eyebrows incline of their own accord.

"Dare I presume, Captain, that your insistence upon taking one of the refurbished shuttlecrafts today was not entirely due to a concern for its in-flight performance?" he inquires dryly.

Kirk's eyes glint in the starlight-reflection as the shuttle bay decompressurizes and they lift off. "You caught me, I'm afraid, Mr. Spock," he answers easily, grinning sideways at his co-pilot. "I've been wanting to fly one of these things for months."

Ten minutes later, when the captain easily maneuvers them in an increasingly tight spiral through some intense downdrafts in the upper stratosphere, he hears the unmistakable sounds of an unfortunate crewman's gag reflex vocalizing his preference to have taken the transporter. Spock can only hope that he never finds himself in any vehicle smaller than a shuttle with this human at the helm.

-0-

Having only been inducted into the Federation shortly before the _Enterprise_ left on her shakedown, there has been no noticeable Federation presence in this sector as of yet, and so their arrival has been heralded with much excitement, or so said their pre-landing briefing.

And it looks to be so, for there is already a smallish crowd gathered when they emerge from the shuttle, the captain already bounding down the shuttle's four steps before the magnetic seals have even finished detaching. Spock refrains from expressing exasperation with the human, feeling oddly like he is attempting to control a small but extremely enthusiastic canine, and merely follows close at his captain's heels.

The natives are a humanoid race, their primary differences being in their internal physiology and in various odd shades of hair and eye coloring. Having only just broken the warp barrier, they are eager to learn and even more eager to meet others like them in the universe; both traits which Spock highly respects. He therefore steels himself for the inevitable onrush of inquisitive minds and most likely physical touches (their briefing mentioned that they are a very tactile species) which will no doubt shortly ensue during formal and informal greetings.

Captain Kirk is already being vigorously shaken by both hands by the smiling woman who apparently is the High Councilor, if Spock reads the symbolism on her jewelry correctly.

"We are so pleased you have come, Captain!" Her voice is pleasant, with a lyrical quality to it that makes Spock suspect music plays a large part in their cultural heritage. The words are accompanied by a quick kiss to the check, still a greeting in many humanoid cultures. "We welcome you and your crew to -." The universal translator stutters with a chirp, which Spock guesses represents the closest Standard approximation to the native word for the capital city, or possibly the planet itself.

"We are in turn pleased to have been given the honor of meeting you and your people, Councilor," Kirk returns, smiling in response. "You will forgive, I hope, our inability to properly pronounce the name of your beautiful city?"

The Councilor merely laughs, still holding the captain's hands. "Of course, Captain Kirk. There will be no offense taken. And this is your crew?" Soft golden eyes flicker to the small group standing just behind their leader, and Kirk nods, smiling.

"My medical team for the day, Nurse Anya and Ensign Li. Lieutenant Rivers, whose specialty is in Universal Translation technology. He will be working with Mr. Spock on bettering communication between our species and on forming a rudimentary algorithm to begin written translation of your language for our Federation Standard data banks."

The Councilor performs the same double-handed greeting and kiss on each crewman as she walks the line with their captain, pausing to briefly ask Lieutenant Rivers a question which unaccountably makes the man blush, for what reason Spock does not know.

"And lastly, my First Officer and Chief Science Officer, Lieutenant-Commander Spock," Kirk says, as they come to the end of the line. "Mr. Spock is the foremost Vulcan scientist in Starfleet, and he will be overseeing the majority of our interactions while in orbit."

Spock braces himself, mental shields locked down severely in place, for the far too tactile greeting of the planet's High Councilor – but to his surprise, Kirk shifts his weight just slightly so that he is standing partly between the woman and his second-in-command.

"Mr. Spock is a Vulcan, whose diverse culture is one of many respected and embraced by the Federation," the captain says without skipping a beat, in the same diplomatically pleasant tone. "His people are touch-telepaths, and therefore refrain from casual physical touch. Mr. Spock, may I present the High Councilor, with whom you will be communicating regarding the categorization of their scientific data bank."

Spock barely pulls himself out of his total shock in time to return the polite bow which the Councilor offers him in lieu of the more tactile greeting. "It is a pleasure to meet a new species, Mr. Spock," she offers with a smile, completely unoffended. "I look forward to collaborating together on our scientific achievements."

"The pleasure is ours, Madam Councilor," he answers, finally finding his voice again, and to his ears at least the universal translator had added the correct syllables to indicate added respect to the title; a compensation for avoiding the physical greeting. "We will learn much from such a peaceable culture as your own."

A few more moments of pleasantries, and they leave their landing party in the safe hands of the Councilor and her people. Anya, Li, and Rivers will be staying on the planet in the scientific facilities, and while Spock is returning with the captain to the _Enterprise_ for an initial report to Starfleet, he will shortly beam back with a larger landing party to begin work on data categorization and translation.

It is not until the captain has once again lurched the shuttle sickeningly through the upper atmosphere and into the quieter vacuum of space, that Spock feels he can voice what still shocks him to his core.

Oddly enough (or perhaps not odd at all, given who this unusual human is), Kirk beats him to it, setting the re-docking controls on auto-pilot and then spinning his chair slightly toward his First, boot-toes squeaking on the new durasteel. "Well, spit it out, Commander. I daresay as a Vulcan you don't feel surprise very often, since it's plain on your face right now."

"I _am_…surprised, Captain." It is a reaction to a stimulus, not an emotion, and therefore permitted, though he does not bother to explain the difference, not to this human.

"And what have I done to warrant such an unusual reaction from a Vulcan, Mr. Spock?" The tone is light, teasing – Spock can finally identify the nuance, after months in this man's company.

"On the planet, sir. You…prevented the High Councilor from delivering to me the standard diplomatic greeting in such circumstances."

Kirk raises a sandy eyebrow, appearing genuinely puzzled. "Of course I did. It's a completely inappropriate greeting for a touch-telepathic species. Why does this surprise you?"

Spock glances down at the controls, though his fingers make no move to change them.

The creak of shifting plasticene draws his attention back to his captain, who is now leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, frowning. "Are you saying this has never happened before, Mr. Spock?"

"Has what, sir?"

Kirk's voice has risen, a note of what sounds like genuine anger tingeing it. "Are you saying that in eleven years of Starfleet service, you have been expected to participate in alien rituals on landing parties, without any concession to your Vulcan way of life?"

"I have rarely been part of non-scientific landing parties, sir, and so the situation has rarely –"

"That was not an answer to my question, Commander." A note of steel threads through the voice now. "Answer it."

Spock glances back to the controls once more, a futile effort to avoid that piercing gaze. "Affirmative, sir."

A huff of breath as the captain leans back forcefully in his chair, glaring at the screen in front of him as if it is solely responsible for his irritation. "That is inexcusable, Spock."

"Sir, a core value of diplomacy is that of compromise –"

"Disregarding someone's cultural beliefs over a trivial difference of – of _gesture, _or _greeting_, is not compromising, it is a violation of civil rights!" Kirk's eyes flash angrily his direction. "When the Federation lands on planets whose natives communicate through telepathy, _humans_ are not forced to submit to a telepathic probe when that is the standard form of greeting on that planet!"

"Nor should they," Spock interjects mildly.

"That's the point!"

"I do not see it, sir."

There is a loud clump as the captain's boots thud down to the ground, as he turns once more in the revolving chair to face his First. "I've long held that Starfleet needs a lesson on what bigotry and selectivism truly are, Commander," he says quietly, fire still burning in his eyes but no longer infusing his tone. "There are far too many all-human starships out there, and we both know that."

"Sir, there are all-Vulcan ships, and all-non-human ones as well, and for very good reasons; primarily that a starship's environment cannot be adapted to non-human species for extended periods of time, such as five years. Most species are not meant to be in deep space for that long, and to make adaptations to a starship in order to accommodate that would be far more time- and funds-consuming than they would be worth."

"And that makes it okay?"

Spock has no answer; up until now, no one has even asked this question.

"I just…" Kirk shakes his head, running a hand uneasily through his hair. "I can't believe you've been subjected to something like that on every landing party you've gone on."

Spock studies a smudge on the gleaming durasteel floor. "I was given to understand, Captain, that one…how do you humans say it. _Puts up with_, such things? For the sake of diplomacy, and the needs of the many. I am certain you yourself have been forced to endure things on landing parties which were not entirely voluntary."

"Spock, making myself look a reptilian species in the eyes despite a fear of snakes, is compromising for the sake of diplomacy," Kirk retorts dryly. "Having someone violate my core set of cultural beliefs as a different species is not compromising, it is being taken advantage of. And it is highly disrespecting."

Spock chances a glance up, and sees no pity in the man's expression, only firm resolve. "You are the first human I have met who has vocalized that particular opinion, sir."

"Are you telling me that's what the Academy is teaching in those non-human diplomacy classes? That you're expected to set aside your own species' cultural differences if it disrupts the well-worded script of a landing party?"

Spock flinches, barely discernibly, but it is enough for this ridiculously perceptive human.

"You can't be serious!"

"Sir, the diplomatic premise is certainly reasonable, indeed logical –"

"_Screw_ your logic, Commander! Er…I apologize for the emotional outburst, Mr. Spock, but there is never an excuse for permitting the majority to decide the minority's differences are to be overlooked instead of acknowledged. What are we teaching our officers!"

Spock's lips twitch suspiciously, and for the first time something warms him deep inside – something a _human_ did, and that strange sensation is something he had never thought to feel.

"For one, we are apparently teaching them to overshoot their re-docking targets," he ventures mildly, indicating the _Enterprise_ now disappearing over their port bow.

Kirk swivels back to the controls with a muttered curse, fingers flying to disengage the safety measures which had swung them around in a second approach run rather than auto-dock without verbal confirmation.

Spock merely leans back in his chair, content to watch this strange young human work. And if that day stands out in his mind for decades to come, well. Surely the novelty of the incident renders it worthy of a place even in a Vulcan's memory.


End file.
